Books: The Iron Rule
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T.S. Arthur >> The Iron Rule
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"Never come into my presence again, until you come an honest man!"
On the day after this utterance of the father's indignant feelings,
Edward left the city; and it was the opinion of many that he went
with a pocket full of money. They were not far wrong.
Thus, of all his children, only the youngest remained with Mr.
Howland. All the rest were estranged from him; and in spite of all
his efforts to push the conviction from his mind, he could not help
feeling that he was to blame for the estrangement.
CHAPTER XI.
NEARLY eight years from the time Andrew Howland left his home have
passed, and we now bring him before the reader as a discharged
United States' dragoon, having just concluded a five years' service
in the far West. He had enlisted, rather than steal, at a time when
he found it impossible to obtain employment, and had gone through
the hard and humiliating service of a trooper on our extreme
frontier, under an assumed name, omitting to write home during the
entire period, lest by any chance a knowledge of his position might
be communicated to his mother, and (her memory had never faded) to
Emily Winters. The images of these two, the only ones he loved in
the world, were green in his bosom. They were drawing him homeward
with a force of attraction that grew stronger and stronger as the
end of his service approached. Nearly three years had elapsed since
he had met any one recently from the East who was able to answer,
satisfactorily, the few inquiries he ventured to make; and now he
was all impatience to return.
Steadily, for a long time, had the young man looked forward to this
period; and in order to have the means of effecting a thorough
change in his external appearance, and to be able to support himself
after his return East, until he obtained some kind of employment, he
had left nearly all his pay in the hands of the disbursing officer.
It now amounted to nearly two hundred dollars.
It was in Santa Fe that Andrew obtained his discharge from the
United States' service. This was soon after the conclusion of the
peace with Mexico, and about the time when the first exciting news
came of golden discoveries on the tributaries of the Sacramento.
On the day after Andrew received his discharge, and while making
preparations for his journey eastward, a company, in which were
several new recruits arrived from the Wachita. Among them he
discovered a young man from P--, to whom he put the direct
question.
"Do you know a Mr. Howland of your city?"
"Andrew Howland, the merchant?" inquired the young man, who was not
over twenty-one years of age.
"Yes," returned Andrew, in a tone of affected indifference.
"His store is in the same block with my father's."
"Indeed! What is your father's name?"
The young man's eyes fell to the ground, and his face became
overspread with crimson.
"Winters," he replied, at length recovering himself.
Andrew turned partly away to conceal the sudden emotion this
intelligence had created. Mastering his feelings with a vigorous
effort, he lifted his eyes to the countenance of the young man and
at once recognized in him the brother of Emily. Restraining the
eagerness he felt to press many questions, Andrew asked him about
his journey from the last military post, and after getting a number
of answers to which he scarcely listened, said--
"How long is it since you left P--?"
"About six months," replied young Winters.
"Do your friends know where you are?"
"No, indeed! Nor would I have them. So, please bear that in mind. I
answered your question almost on the spur of the moment."
"Do you know anything about Mr. Howland or his family?" asked
Andrew, without seeming to notice the young man's remark.
"Nothing very particular; only that the old gentleman failed in
business about a year ago."
"Ah! How came that?"
"His son Edward broke him up."
"His son Edward?"
"Yes. The old man set him a going in business; but he soon run
himself under, and his father into the bargain. He made a terrible
bad failure of it."
"Who?"
"Edward Howland. He went off soon after, and they do say, carried
his pockets full of money. And I imagine there is some truth in it.
He wasn't exactly the clear grit. Some people called him a
smooth-faced hypocrite, and I guess they were not very far wrong."
Andrew asked no more questions for some time, but sat, thoughtful,
with his face so far turned away from the young man, that its
expression could not be seen.
"Mrs. Howland is living, I presume?" said he, at length, in a tone
as indifferent as he could assume; but which was, nevertheless,
unsteady.
"Yes. She was living when I came away."
Andrew drew a quick breath, and then his laboring chest found relief
in a long expiration.
"Poor old man! I'm sorry for him," came from his lips in a few
moments afterwards. The tone was half indifferent, yet expressed
some sympathy.
"Everybody seems sorry for him," said Winters. "It has broken him
down very much. He looks ten years older."
"Is he entirely out of business?" asked Andrew.
"No; he is still going on; but he doesn't appear to do much. I think
the family is poor. They've sold their handsome house, and are
living in a much smaller one. I heard father say that Mr. Howland
had received an extension from his creditors, but that he was too
much crippled to be able to go through, and would, in the end, break
down entirely."
There was another pause, and then Andrew changed the subject by
asking the young man something about himself, and led on the
conversation, from step to step, until he got him to mention the
fact that he had a sister named Emily.
"Is she older than yourself?" inquired Andrew.
"Oh, yes. Some four years older," was replied.
"Married, of course," said Andrew.
The very effort he made to say this with seeming unconcern gave so
unnatural an expression to his tone of voice, that young Winters
looked at him with momentary surprise.
"No, she is not married," he answered.
"She's old enough," said Andrew, speaking now in a tone of more real
indifference.
"Yes; but she'll probably die an old maid. She's had two or three
good offers; but no one appears just to suit her fancy. Father was
very angry about her rejecting a young man some two or three years
ago, who afterwards disgraced himself, and broke the heart of a
young creature who had been weak enough to marry him."
"Then I should say that your sister was a sensible girl," remarked
Andrew, in a cheerful voice.
"Yes, she is a sensible girl; and, what is more, a good girl. Ah,
me! I wish I were half as sensible and half as good."
With what a free motion did the heart of Andrew beat after receiving
this intelligence!
"Is Mary Howland married?" he asked. He knew that she was, for he
had seen the fact noticed in a newspaper.
"Yes; she married a Mr. Markland."
"Who is he?"
"I don't know much about, him. He's a teller in one of the banks."
"How did the family like her marriage?"
"Not at all. They don't visit."
"Indeed! Why?"
"Dear knows! Old Mr. Howland is a hard sort of a man when he takes
up a prejudice against any one. He didn't like Markland, and said
that Mary shouldn't marry him. She felt differently, and did marry
him. The consequence was, that the old man said and did so much that
was offensive, that he and Markland have had no intercourse since."
"Mary comes home, I suppose?"
"I rather think not. I believe that she and her father have not
spoken in two years. At least, so I heard sister once say."
"That is bad! Poor man! He is unfortunate with his children."
Andrew, as he spoke, felt that he was unfortunate, and an emotion of
pity stirred along the surface of his feelings.
"Indeed he is!" said Winters, who was disposed to be communicative.
"But I presume it is a good deal his own fault. They say that his
harsh treatment drove his oldest son from home."
"Ah?"
"Yes. He was a wild sort of a boy, and his father didn't show him
any mercy. The consequence was, that instead of leading him into the
right way, he drove him into the wrong way. He ran off from home a
great while ago, and has never been heard from since. It is thought
that he is dead. I once heard father say that, with all his faults,
he was the best of the bunch."
Something interrupted the conversation of the two young men at this
point, and they separated. A couple of hours afterward, as Andrew
walked along one of the streets of Santa Fe, musing over the
intelligence he had gleaned from young Winters, a fellow soldier,
whose time of service had also just expired, met him, and said--
"You're not going back to the States, are you?"
"Such has been my intention," replied Andrew.
"I'm not going."
"I thought you were."
"I've altered my mind. A party sets off to-morrow for the gold
regions of California, and I'm going with them."
"Indeed! That's a sudden change of resolution. But you don't believe
all the stories you hear of this El Dorado?
"No, not all of them. But if even the half be true, there's a golden
harvest to be reaped by all who put in the sickle."
"Yes, the half is encouraging enough," said Andrew, in a tone of
abstraction. The fact is, since he had heard from home, his desire
to return immediately was lessened. News of his father's altered
circumstances had softened his feelings toward him very much, and
created a strong desire to aid him in the extremity to which he had
been reduced. But he had no ability to do this. All he possessed in
the world was about two hundred dollars, and it would take at least
half of this to pay his passage home. Already had his thoughts been
reaching Westward, as the only point where, by any possibility, he
could better his fortunes to an extent that would enable him to help
his father. But there was so much of apparent romance in the stories
that reached his ears, that he had many strong doubts as to even the
main facts reported.
"You'd better join us," remarked the comrade.
"How many are going?" inquired Andrew.
"Seven. And we'd very much like to add you to the number."
"I'm really half-inclined to go with you," said Andrew, speaking
with a good deal of animation in his voice.
"You'll never regret it," said the other. "Not only are the stories
about an abundance of gold authentic, but I have good reasons for
believing that the half has not been told. I talked with a man last
night, who says that he knew of several instances where lumps of the
precious metal, weighing several pounds, have been picked up. One
man collected ten thousand dollars worth of lumps of pure gold in a
week."
"That's a large story," replied Andrew, smiling.
"Perhaps so; but it is not all a fabrication. At any rate, I am off
to this region, and my advice to you is, to join our little party."
"When do you start?
"To-morrow morning."
"I'll think about it," said Andrew Howland.
"You must think quickly," was answered. "There is no time to spare.
It is but two hours to nightfall; and we are to be in the saddle by
sunrise. So, if you conclude to join our party you have but small
space left for preparation."
Andrew stood with his eyes upon the ground for nearly a minute; then
looking up, he said, in a firm voice--
"I will go."
"And, my word for it, you'll never repent the decision. Gathering up
lumps of gold by the peck is a quicker way to fortune than
dragooning it at five dollars a month--ha?"
"My anticipations lie within a much narrower circle than yours," was
quietly answered to this; "but one thing is certain, if gold is to
be had in California for the mere digging, you may depend on Andrew
Howland getting his share of the treasure."
"That's the spirit, my boy!" said the other, clapping him on the
shoulder--"the very spirit of every member of our little party. And
if we don't line our pockets with the precious stuff, it will be
because none is to be found."
On the next morning, Andrew Howland started on his long and perilous
journey for the region of gold, with a new impulse in his heart, and
a hope in the future, such as, up to this time, he had never known.
But it was not a mere selfish love of gold that was influencing him.
He was acted on by a nobler feeling.
CHAPTER XII.
FROM the shock of his son's failure, Mr. Howland did not recover. In
arranging with his own creditors, he had arranged to do too much,
and consequently his reduced business went on under pressure of
serious embarrassment. He had sold his house, and two other pieces
of property, and was living at a very moderate expense; but all this
did not avail, and he saw the steady approaches of total ruin.
One day, at a time when this conviction was pressing most heavily
upon him, one of the creditors of Edward, who had lost a good deal
by the young man, came into the store, and asked if he had heard
lately from his son.
Mr. Howland replied he had not.
"He's in Mobile, I understand?" said the gentleman.
"I believe he is," returned Mr. Howland.
"A correspondent of mine writes that he is in business there, and
seems to have plenty of money."
"It is only seeming, I presume," remarked Mr. Howland.
"He says that he has purchased a handsome piece of property there."
"It cannot be possible!" was ejaculated.
"I presume that my information is true. Now, my reason for
communicating this fact to you is, that you may write to him, and
demand, if he have money to invest, that he refund to you a portion
of what you have paid for him, and thus save you from the greater
difficulties that I too plainly see gathering around you, and out of
which I do not think it is possible for you to come unaided."
"No, sir," was the reply of Mr. Howland, as he slowly shook his
head. "If he have money, it is ill-gotten, and I cannot share it. He
owes you, write to him, and demand a payment of the debt."
"I am willing to yield my right in your favor, Mr. Howland. In your
present extremity, you can make an appeal that it will be impossible
for him to withstand. He may not dream of the position in which you
are placed; and it is due to him that you inform him thereof. It
will give him an opportunity to act above an evil and selfish
spirit, and this action may be in him the beginning of a better
state."
But the father shook his head again.
"Mr. Howland," said the other "you owe it to your son to put it in
his power to act from a better principle than the one that now
appears to govern him. Let him know of your great extremity, and he
may compel himself to act against the selfish cupidities by which he
is too plainly governed. Such action, done in violence of evil
affections, may be to him the beginning of a better life. All things
originate in small beginnings. There must first be a point of influx
for good, as well as for bad principles. Sow this seed in your son's
mind, and it may germinate, and grow into a plant of honesty."
Mr. Howland heaved a deep sigh, as he answered--
"This is presenting the subject in a new light; I will think about
it."
"May you think about it to good purpose," replied the friend,
earnestly.
This communication disturbed Mr. Howland greatly. He had too many
good reasons for doubting his son's integrity of character; but he
was not prepared to hear of such deliberate and cruel dishonesty as
this. It was but another name for robbery--a robbery, even to the
ruin of his own father.
"I will demand restitution!" said the old man, impatiently, as his
mind dwelt longer and longer on the subject, and his feelings grew
more and more indignant. From the thought of any appeal on the
ground of humanity, he revolted. It was something entirely out of
keeping with his peculiar character. He could not bend to this.
So Mr. Howland wrote a pretty strong letter to his son, in which he
set forth in terse language the facts he had heard, and demanded as
a right, that restitution be at once made.
Weeks passed and no answer to this demand was received. In the
meantime, another crisis in the affairs of Mr. Howland was rapidly
approaching. Unless aid were received from some quarter, he must
sink utterly prostrate under the pressure that was upon him, and
again fail to meet the honorable engagements that he had made. When
that crisis came, he would fall to rise no more.
Ten days only remained, and then there would come a succession of
payments, amounting in all to over five thousand dollars. To meet
these payments unaided, would be impossible; and there was no one
now to aid the reduced and sinking merchant. There was not a friend
to whom he could go for aid so substantial as was now required, for
most of his business friends had already suffered to some extent by
his failure, and were not in the least inclined to risk anything
farther on one whose position was known to be extremely doubtful.
The nearer this second crisis came, and the more distinctly Mr.
Howland was able to see its painful features, the more did his heart
shrink from encountering a disaster that would involve all his
worldly affairs in hopeless ruin.
In this strait, the mind of Mr. Howland kept turning, involuntarily,
toward his son Edward, as toward the only resource left him on the
earth; but ever as it turned thus, something in him revolted at the
idea, and he strove to push it from his thoughts. He could not do
this, however, for it was the straw on the surface of the waters in
which he felt himself sinking.
Painfully, and with a sense of deep humiliation, did Mr. Howland at
length bring himself up to the point of writing again to his son. As
everything depended on the effect of this second letter, he went
down into a still lower deep of humiliation, and after representing
in the most vivid colors the extremity to which he was reduced,
begged him, if a spark of humanity remained in his bosom, to send
him the aid he needed.
With a trembling hope did the father wait, day after day, for an
answer to this letter. Time passed on, and the ninth day since its
transmission came and yet there was no reply.
Nervously anxious was Mr. Howland on the morning of the tenth day,
for if no help came then, it was all over with him. His note for
fifteen hundred dollars fell due, and must be lifted ere the stroke
of three, or the end with him had come.
A few mouthfuls of food were taken at breakfast, and then Mr.
Howland hurried away to the Post Office, his heart fluttering with
fear and expectation. A few moments, and he would know his fate. As
he came in sight of the long row of boxes, his eyes glanced eagerly
toward the one in which his letters were filed up. There was
something in it. In a tone of forced composure, he called out the
number of his box, and received from the clerk two letters. He
glanced at the post-mark of one, and read--"New York," and at the
other, and saw--"Boston." For a moment or two his breath was
suspended, and his knees smote together. Then he moved away, slowly,
with such a pressure on his feelings that the weight was reproduced
on his physical system, and he walked with difficulty.
The letters were from business correspondents, and in no way
affected the position of extremity he occupied. For a greater part
of the morning Mr. Howland sat musing at his desk, in a kind of
dreamy abstraction. All effort was felt to be useless, and he made
none. At dinner time he went home, and sat at the table, silent and
gloomy; but he scarcely tasted food. After the meal, he returned to
his store--a faint hope springing up in his mind that Edward might
have submitted the aid he had asked for so humbly by private hand,
or through some broker in the city, and that it would yet arrive in
time to save him. Alas! this proved a vain hope. Three o'clock came,
and the unredeemed note still lay in bank.
"It is all over!" murmured the unhappy man, as like the strokes of a
hammer upon his heart fell the three distinct chimes that rung the
knell of his business life.
Taking up a newspaper, and affecting to read, Mr. Howland sat for
nearly an hour awaiting the notorial visit, which seemed long
delayed. At last he saw a man enter and come walking back toward the
desk at which he sat. Not doubting but that it was the Notary, he
was preparing to answer--"I can't take it, up," when a well-dressed
stranger, with a dark, sun-burnt, countenance that had in it many
familiar lines, passed before him, and fixed his eyes with an
earnest look upon his face. For a few moments the two men regarded
each other in silence, and then the stranger reached out his hand
and uttered the single word--
"Father!"
"Andrew!" responded Mr. Howland, catching eagerly hold of the
offered hand.; "Andrew! my son! my son! are you yet alive?"
The great deep of the old man's heart was suddenly broken up, and he
was overwhelmed by the rising floods of emotion. His lips quivered;
there was a convulsive play of all the muscles of his face; and then
large tears came slowly over his cheeks. The man of iron will was
melted down; he wept like a child, and his son wept with him.
Scarcely had the first strong emotions created by this meeting
exhausted themselves, when another person entered the store, and
advanced to where the father and son were standing. He held a small
slip of paper in his hand, and as he came up to Mr. Howland, he
said, holding up the piece of paper--
"Your note for fifteen hundred dollars remains unpaid."
"I'm sorry, but I can't lift it," replied Mr. Howland, in a low
voice that he wished not to reach the ear of his son; but Andrew
heard the answer distinctly, and instantly drawing a large pocket
book from his pocket, took out a roll of bank bills which he reached
to his father, saying, as he did so--
"Take what you want. How timely has been my arrival!"
"My heart blesses you, my son, for this generous tender of aid in a
great extremity," said Mr. Howland in a trembling voice, as he
pushed back the roll of money. "But a crisis in my affairs has just
arrived, and the lifting of this note will not save me."
"How much will save you?" asked Andrew.
"I must have five or six thousand dollars in as many days," replied
Mr. Howland.
"This package of money will serve you then, for it contains ten
thousand dollars," said Andrew. "Take it."
"I cannot rob you thus," returned Mr. Howland, in a broken voice, as
he still drew back.
"Let me have that note, my friend." Andrew now turned to the Notary,
who did not hesitate to exchange the merchant's promise to pay, for
three five hundred dollar bills of a solvent bank.
A brief but earnest and affectionate interview then took place
between Andrew and his father, which closed with a request from the
former that he might be permitted to see his mother alone, and spend
with her the few hours that remained until evening, before the
latter joined them.
CHAPTER XIII.
IT is nine years since Mrs. Howland looked her last look on her
wayward, wandering boy, and eight years since any tidings came from
him to bless her yearning heart. She appears older by almost twenty
years, and moves about with a quiet drooping air, as if her heart
were releasing itself from its hold on earthly objects, and reaching
out its tendrils for a higher and surer support. With the exception
of Martha, the youngest, all her children have given her trouble.
Scarcely one of the sweet hopes cherished by her heart, when they
first lay in helpless innocence upon her bosom, have been realized.
Disappointment--disappointment--has come at almost every step of her
married life. The iron hand of her husband has crushed almost every
thing. Ah! how often and often, as she breathed the chilling air of
her own household, where all was constrained propriety, would her
heart go back to the sunny home in which were passed the happy days
of girlhood, and wish that something of the wisdom and gentleness
that marked her father's intercourse with his children could be
transferred to her uncompromising husband. But that was a vain wish.
The two men had been cast in far different moulds.
Martha, now in her eighteenth year, was more like her mother than
any of the children, and but for the light of her presence Mrs.
Howland could hardly have kept her head above the waters that were
rushing around her. Toward Martha the conduct of her father had,
from the first, been of a mild character compared with his action
toward the other children; and this received a still farther
modification, when it become apparent even to himself, that by his
hardness he had estranged the affections of his elder children, and
driven them away. Gentle and loving in all her actions, she
gradually won her way more and more deeply into the heart of her
father, until she acquired a great influence over him. This
influence she had tried to make effectual in bringing about a
reconciliation between him and her sister's husband; but, up to this
time, her good offices were not successful. The old man's prejudices
remained strong--he was not prepared to yield; and Markland's
self-love having been deeply wounded by Mr. Howland, he was not
disposed to make any advances toward healing the breach that
existed. As for Mary, she cherished too deeply the remembrance of
her father's unbending severity toward his children--in fact his
iron hand had well nigh crushed affection out of her heart--to feel
much inclined to use any influence with her husband. And so the
separation, unpleasant and often painful to both parties, continued.
To Mrs. Howland it was a source of constant affliction. Much had she
done toward affecting a reconciliation; but the materials upon which
she tried to impress something of her own gentle and forgiving
spirit were of too hard a nature.
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